The Knight's Scarred Maiden. Nicole Locke

on a smaller table against the wall a pitcher, basin, and linens she kept there for her skin. When he stepped forward to pick up the small clay pot, the candlelight flickered against his half-turned body.

      She’d only seen him in the dim light of the inn and while there she was too busy to linger, to watch. Now he was standing and all she could do was see him.

      His face was still in shadows, but the rest... The rest of his body spoke of wealth and a masculine symmetry of strength that could only come from years of training. She’d never seen a man built like him. Elegant. Lethal.

      He removed the lid, sniffed it and jerked back.

      Her smile stung her split lip. ‘It takes some getting used to.’

      ‘Is this it?’ He covered the top with his hand.

      She nodded and couldn’t hide her wince.

      ‘Where does it hurt?’

      She wasn’t trembling at all now. In the quiet cocoon of darkness, her heart had stopped racing. She hurt everywhere. Her cheek had swollen, her cut lip throbbed. Her legs and wrists where they’d restrained her burned. Mostly she was having difficulty breathing. ‘Here.’ She pointed to her ribs.

      Another hesitation on his part. ‘Is there anyone else to care for you?’

      ‘I care for myself. I can do this.’

      ‘Not this.’ She felt his frown. ‘I’ll need to feel if you have any broken ribs. I won’t be able to feel it over that dress. You’ll need to remove it.’

      His words were suddenly firm, like he expected her to protest. He was probably used to women with modesty. He couldn’t know she’d lost that as a child when the healer kept her naked for months, when the innkeepers applied the honey salve over the areas of her body she couldn’t reach.

      She wasn’t modest, it had been burned away from her, but she was very much aware of how she looked to others, who hadn’t seen the worst of her scars. Along her torso, her scars were deep slashing grooves where the flaming rafters had pinned her before she could free herself.

      A pounding on the door made her jump.

      ‘It’s Nicholas,’ a male, muffled voice called out.

      Her stranger opened the door. ‘They’re taken care of,’ Nicholas reported holding out a sword. ‘But the third returned and...’

      ‘What did he do to you?’ she gasped. Both men glanced her way.

      ‘He...er...showed to the party.’ Nicholas’s grim expression looked almost amused as he returned his attention to her stranger. ‘He’ll be waking with a headache. When he wakes. It’ll also take him a while to return.’

      ‘How far?’ Her shadow man sheathed his sword.

      ‘To that thick of trees we passed to the South. I would have taken him further, but didn’t know if there’d be any more guests.’

      ‘There aren’t any more,’ she said.

      Both men inspected her briefly. ‘Give me a moment,’ her stranger said, as he stepped outside.

      She heard the men talk, but not the words. It was enough for her to know they’d spent many years together. Nicholas’s voice was laced with amusement like he relished hurting his guests. Guests. Words she never would use with those men. But the word was significant because these men, these mercenaries, knew she was listening and used gentler words around her.

      Kindness again. She was unused to it since the innkeepers passed away. Agnes, the healer, had cared for her, but hadn’t shown her the same gentleness for her feelings.

      She hadn’t thought of the healer this much in years. But instantly knew why she was reminded. It was the men now talking behind the half-opened door.

      Their words were efficient. Practical. The healer had cared for her in much the same determined manner. When the pain was bad, it was the healer’s firm voice that broke through it and made her carry on. Like here. Scars or not, her ribs demanded she carry on and so she made a decision.

      Her stranger stepped back into the room and closed the door. ‘You won’t have to worry about those men. They’re gone.’ He turned to her and stopped. ‘Your dress.’

      ‘I took it off. I’m having trouble breathing and I know nothing about broken bones. But it’s sharp and stabbing me worse than their knife point. Will you be able to feel through my chemise?’

      With the door closed, he was all in darkness. ‘Yes. Sit, but do not lie down.’ He grabbed the candlestick in one hand and the small table with the linens and water in the other.

      The echoing scrape of the table as it was brought closer was unnaturally loud in the small room. Nervous, she ran her hands down her chemise and sat. It immediately constricted her breathing, but eased the shaking in her legs.

      She wasn’t prepared at all when he stopped pulling the table. Wasn’t prepared as he lowered the candle so he could inspect her face...and revealed all of his. The lone candle flickered and dimmed with his movements, but she could see him and she was stunned.

      Perfection. His hair was cut short on the sides and long on top. Blond, but with a gold tinge like honey in the sunlight, his brows were darker. His lowered lashes were darker yet and absurdly long and thick as he regarded the injuries to her lip and cheek.

      His cheekbones elegantly framed the square jaw and slight cleft in his chin. And lips, light pink, almost full if not for the sardonic masculine curve to them. A man who knew humor...or at least once had.

      His brow furrowed and there was a twitch to his lips before his eyes flashed to hers as if to determine something. She didn’t know what because it took all she had not to react to the further reveal.

      There was no way not to react. Her eyes widened and watered from not blinking. Her lips parted, her breath hitched and she experienced every surprise reaction anybody would under the circumstances.

      Beautiful? He wasn’t real. His eyes...they were amber colored. If his hair was light like the tips of a flame, his eyes were dark like honey heated by that fire.

      As she watched, they darkened more, his chin tilting almost defiantly.

      It was the defiance that broke whatever spell he cast. Defiance. As if he dared her to stare more. It was a look she had given many times when someone had gaped at her marred face. His made no sense to her. She forced people to look so they’d leave her alone.

      Why defiance from him when he was perfection? He shouldn’t need to be left alone. She didn’t know the answer to that, but he had showed her only kindness and she was being rude. ‘I’m Helissent.’

      He quickly set the candle on the table and was again cast in shadows. But he hadn’t set the candlestick aside fast enough. The defiance in his eyes had eased; however, his look remained guarded or trapped as if he didn’t trust her introduction. It was an odd look coming from a mercenary, who just took down two men and made another run for his life.

      * * *

      Rhain almost groaned. Nicholas was right, he shouldn’t be here. Neither in this part of the country, nor this tiny village and certainly not in this woman’s home.

      Restless, he kept his shift patrolling the town, which had no gates or walls for protection. Any of Reynold’s men would have access to the buildings here. It was the perfect place for an ambush.

      He should be proud he stopped an actual ambush even though it wasn’t for him or his men, but this lone woman, who made cakes in the middle of the night when she shouldn’t.

      But he wasn’t proud; he was a fool. He hadn’t thought before he attacked. He reacted as he had in London. This time though he should have known better.

      At first he did. The men’s menacing voices meant nothing...until he heard hers.

      Then he’d stopped. Her voice carrying